


time's signature

by i_was_human



Category: Lost in Translation (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Car Accidents, Character Death, Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, Musical References, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Character Death, Wakes & Funerals, Whump, cameos from jaewon and daehyun's moms, no beta we die like Major Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_was_human/pseuds/i_was_human
Summary: he makes his coffee, sits on the couch as the sun starts to creep over the horizon. sometimes, he can see why new york is the city of dreams - at night, when the sun's long-gone and bright lights fill every corner and laughter and shouts ring through the air - but in the early mornings like this, it just feels desolate.the city may never sleep, but memory lasts even longer.
Relationships: Ahn Jaewon | Wyld & Kang Dongho | D.Min & Kim Daehyun & Lee Minsoo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	time's signature

the early morning hours are nothing but gray.

it's a rhythm that's easy to remember. wake up, lie in bed for around fifteen minutes, get up, feed boba, shower. it's a metronome under his life - _tk-tk-tk-tk_ \- a constant even as the beat changed.

he makes his coffee, sits on the couch as the sun starts to creep over the horizon. sometimes, he can see why new york is the city of dreams - at night, when the sun's long-gone and bright lights fill every corner and laughter and shouts ring through the air - but in the early mornings like this, it just feels desolate.

the city may never sleep, but memory lasts even longer.

it's why he had to leave korea, in the end. it's too hard to look around and see it all - see the memories of the people he left behind.

boba hops onto the couch, head-butts his hand. he scratches her behind the ears, along the jaw, and the clock _tk-tk-tk-tk_ s in the background, a four-count to accompany his morning.

(every day.)

he has things to do today - music to finish, places to go, people to meet - but it's been two years since that day, and he just...

feels gray.

it's easier to think in metaphors when there isn't an achingly literal balance, easier to lose himself in the clouds when nobody's tethering him to the earth, easy to be dumb when nobody's watching-

he pulls the hoodie over his head, pretending for an instant that it's his.

(pretending for an instant that he didn't pull it out of daehyun's closet after the funeral because everything smelled like lavender and daehyun never smelled like lavender-)

stop. 

recalibrate.

though, actually, isn't today the only day he can turn off his metronome?

 _tk-tk-tk-tk_ goes the clock, but he isn't listening.

_4/4_

airport terminals are never the best place to receive bad news.

he's waiting for his flight to start boarding, his bag at his feet and some game minsoo keeps talking about on his phone.people bustle around - parents with their children, college students, businessmen - and here he is, stagnant.

a call pops up on his screen - their manager - and he taps "accept", unplugging his headphones and pressing his phone to his ear.

"hello?"

_"...are you on your way back to korea?"_

"the plane's about to board," he replies, unsure of _what_ , exactly, is going on, but positive it's nothing good. "what's happening?"

_"...the others passed away in a car accident last night."_

the bustle of the airport fades into a dull roar.

he's looking into empty space, but not seeing.

it's like a speeding car slamming into a brick wall - his brain _will not accept that_. can't- can't accept something so sudden, so harsh, so- _so_.

"oh," is all he says, and it's a struggle to even get that much out, his brain twisted up and tangled in illogicalities. 

_"their parents are on their way to the company - once you arrive, could you meet them?"_

it's a good thing he's the one doing this, a hysterical part of his brain states, because none of the others could pull their shit together long enough to handle it-

_could have._

past tense.

"yes," he replies - short, clipped - before his voice betrays him by daring to do something so cruel as to crack or break or tremble. "i'll see you in a few hours."

_"dongho-"_

he hangs up.

his phone falls into his lap, and that roar grows louder, threatening to swallow him whole. 

dead.

_dead._

_dead-dead-deaddeaddeaddead-_

_4/4_

he doesn't cry.

he doesn't cry on the plane, doesn't cry in the terminal, doesn't cry when he's sitting in a car with his bag by his side and _emptiness_ filling the air.

it's not his job to cry. it's his job to pull his shit together and take care of the people who need it more, to provide a shoulder to cry on and a stable mind, and then when everything's done, _then_ he can cry.

his fingers drum a rhythm on his thigh - _tmp-tmp-tmp-tmp_ \- and it's more calm than the rhythm of his racing heart, but it's _fine_.

he has to comfort three mothers who've just been told their sons are dead, but _it's fine_.

he's- he's fine, even if he isn't fine, even if there are missed texts filling up his phone and messages sent to people who will never receive them. he's fine, even if he's the furthest thing from fine, because the world grades grief on a bell curve, and he's not entitled to anything more than the bare minimum, because _he is not family._

was not.

(even if he was.)

he rests his head against the window, breath fogging up the glass as a familiar melody fills his ears. his song - _their song_ \- and it feels like the furthest thing from real, right now, like someone pushed him out of a plane without a parachute but he can't believe he's falling until he sees the ground.

in.

out.

his fingers keep a steady beat on his thigh - _tmp-tmp-tmp-tmp_ \- and that feels more real than anything else, right now - a beat to take direction from, a way to focus, a way to move - so he digs in a bit, manicured nails causing a dull ache where they dig into his jeans.

his manager stares at him through the rearview mirror, and he can see the cuts on the older man's face, can see the bandages covering his hands, and for a moment, he's filled with the irrational desire to scream, to grab his shoulders and shake him and ask _why did you live and they didn't_?

but he has never been a slave to his emotions, even if he always has, so he sits and digs in a little bit deeper, keeping up the metronome even as his eyes burn from exhaustion.

exhaustion.

nothing else.

_4/4_

when he hops out of the car, cameras are flashing.

he's not surprised - of course the media would descend on this like the pack of hungry vultures they are - so he just pulls up his hood and lets their manager lead him through the crowd.

he hopes the cameras don't capture the dark circles under his eyes, hopes they don't capture the way his hands shake around the strap of his bag or the headphones snaking out of his pocket.

(he hopes the photos show he's breathing, because he feels like he might have to check.)

the manager escorts him into the building and shuts the door, and he pushes back his hood, gaze drifting around the room.

ah.

there's a woman sitting near the front desk, and _oh_ , she has jaewon's kind eyes, and he's not prepared for this (but can anybody be prepared for this?) not sure what to say, not sure if there's anything he can do, but he has to try _something_.

"ahn-ssi?"

she turns, and the _pain_ in her eyes nearly knocks him over. god, there's a world of hurt in her eyes, a depth of agony he can't even begin to fathom, and though his eyes burn, he blinks a few times to hide it.

"are you one of my son's groupmates?"

her voice is rough, cracking, and _oh_ , this is why he's keeping everything inside, because she needs this - needs to grieve her son, needs to grieve in a way he'll never be able to fathom.

"yeah," he murmurs, stuffing his hands in his pockets so he doesn't do something stupid like offer her a handshake. "kang dongho."

"ahn jieun," she replies, and despite her obvious grief, there's a kindness to her voice. "...is it true?"

"what?"

"what they said about my son?"

her voice breaks on the "son", and her head falls into her hands, messy silver hair eclipsing her eyes and shoulders trembling with unshed tears. and _god_ , does she not know? did jaewon just... never tell her about everything that happened, not tell her about the scandals that _chip-chip-chipped_ away at his smile and laughter and _joy_?

he's not blind, much as he wishes he was. 

(god, things would be so much easier that way.)

"yeah," he murmurs, and watches as tears drip off her chin, watches as jaewon's mother breaks down. 

this is his fault.

he should've been here, should've done something, _should have stayed_ -

instead, he just sits there, helpless as jaewon's mother sobs, and the _tck-tck-tck-tck_ in his head ratchets up a few beats.

_2/2_

he's the one in charge of cleaning things up.

the dorm looks just like it always does, glasses and clothes strewn around the living room, and _oh_ , it's so achingly easy to pretend like the others are coming back, like they aren't _dead_ , and the realization sticks in his throat and _chokes him_.

dust motes float through the air, illuminated by the setting sun, and for a moment, it feels like just another day - just another day where he's home first. or maybe the others are in their room, daehyun tuning his guitar or jaewon scrolling through twitter or minsoo playing a game, and he could go in there now, and they'd be there-

foolishly, desperately, he pulls open the door-

and the room is empty.

daehyun's guitar leans against the bed, his sheets messy and plushies strewn about. jaewon's top bunk, on the other hand, is neatly made, his one plushie leaning against the wall and sheets pulled up to the top of the bed.

 _don't cry_ , he chants, moving around the room on autopilot. _don't cry now, don't cry now_.

he has a job to do.

daehyun's plushies go into one box, and his clothes into another. he lingers on the guitar - tayler, daehyun called it tayler, treated it like a best friend and intended to keep it for the rest of his life, _which he did_ \- before zipping it up and placing it with the rest, his hand lingering on the rough material of the case before he turns away.

_don't cry._

jaewon's stuff goes away easily - he never had much to keep, anyways - but it's tough to pack up the photo he has next to his bed, tough to look at the photo of him and his mother and not see the woman with the silver hair crying for the loss of a son she barely knew. 

in.

out.

he taps the top of the box as he puts it down - _tp-tp-tp-tp_ \- and stares at the empty room, the only thing left save the furniture being the dust swirling in the air.

god, he doesn't want to go into his room.

he does anyways.

the door creaks as he opens it, slowly, so slowly, and the four-count in his head goes into cut-time at the sight of everything _minsoo_ strewn about. there's his computer, there's his bed, there're his strategy books and choreography notes-

 _don't cry. don't fucking cry_.

he has a job to do.

minsoo's computer goes into a large box, placed on top of his gaming chair for safekeeping. his books and notes go into another, his clothes and shoes into a third.

it's hard to breathe.

the sun's almost out of the sky by now, and only the last dregs of day stubbornly cling to the horizon. it's hard to believe that just twenty-four hours ago, he didn't know - hard to believe that everything could change so fast.

it's so, so hard to breathe.

his heart pounds in cut-time as he boxes up his life, labels everything with crisp letters and stacks them up in a pattern only he knows. once he's done, he slides to the floor in front of their bunk bed, back pressed to the wood, and he exhales, trying to calm the rabbit-beating of his heart.

he fumbles with his headphones before he finally manages to fit them over his ears, and he turns on an old song, letting it drown out his mind for just one moment. 

later.

he can break down later.

_6/8_

they never warn you that you'll have to give a speech at your best friend's funeral.

he's standing at the podium, his mouth dry and hands shaking, and that cut-time has switched to six-eight - _beat-beat-beat-beat-beat-beat_ \- and each one is proof he's breathing, each one is proof he's alive and here and okay, and _god_ , what he wouldn't give to trade that for the boy in the coffin.

"minsoo and i met when he was sixteen," he starts, and _god_ , let his voice not crack, _god, let him get through this_. "back then, he was just a skinny kid with big dreams, and i- i understood that. having big dreams."

it _aches_ , in that horrible, bone-deep way, and _oh_ , it claws at his ribs, the grief so present it's nearly _suffocating_.

"he was my best friend," he breathes, and let his voice not crack, let him give the eulogy he needs to, _let him show minsoo how he feels_. "he was my best friend, and i-"

he cuts himself off. 

"i remember the night before debut, i was up late working on something - probably a dance project? - and minsoo came out, earbuds in his ears and looking that way he always did when you were doing something stupid he didn't approve of."

god, he can see it in his mind. the scrunch of his brow, the purse of his lips, the glimmer in his eye-

he'll never see it again, so best imagine it while he still can.

"and he sat by my side and poked my cheek, and he asked me why i was up so late."

oh, minsoo.

"i don't remember what i told him, but i remember that he grabbed my wrist. he grabbed my wrist, and pulled me out of the room, and told me i should take care of myself, because if i didn't, then he'd be upset."

oh, _minsoo_.

"and that's just... just the kind of person he was. always trying, always- always trying harder than the day before, and he just-"

that six-eight time speeds up, sixteen notes rising and falling, and _god_ , his eyes _burn_ , burn from the exhaustion, burn from the hours spent on twitter, burn from the tears he _cannot let spill_.

"he was too good of a person to die like this."

the words ring hollow as he finishes, and he had so much more - so much more he should've said, so much more he should've done - but he can't breathe, can't think, and as he steps outside, cameras flash, capturing the shimmer of his eyes, but never, never catching tears. 

never.

_12/16_

"you're giving it to me?"

daehyun's mother smiles - weak, wan, exhausted - and she pushes the guitar case towards him, his hands coming up on reflex to clutch at the straps.

"...why?" he helplessly asks, and daehyun's mother dips her head, silver-struck hair eclipsing her eyes for a moment.

"he'd have wanted one of you to have it, not- not let it collect dust in an attic."

he understands what this means to her - to him, to everyone - but he just-

how can he say _he isn't worthy of this?_

"thank you," he finally states, and daehyun's mother smiles, faint, ghost-like.

"you're welcome."

she leaves, dust swirling in the air around her, and his hands shake as he stares down at the case in his hands, heart pounding in his chest.

sixteen-beat - too quick to count.

he slings it over his shoulder, and for a single, irrational moment, he almost labels it the weight of fame, but that wouldn't be correct, would it?

this is the weight of mayhem - the weight of the dead - and he _cannot breathe under it_.

the guitar hits the ground with a resounding "thud", and he crumples, sixteen becoming thirty-two becoming sixty-four as his eyes _burn_.

in, out, in-out _inoutinoutinout-_

his eyes burn, and he chokes on a sob, unable to stop the tears that finally, _finally_ spill down his cheeks. it burns - burns somewhere deep in his core, burns in that aching part of his chest minsoo and daehyun and jaewon used to occupy - and he sits back, head thunking against the wall as tears roll down his chin.

it should've been him.

god, god, it should've been him. 

_why wasn't it him?_

_4/4_

his gaze drifts to the guitar in the corner - it's still in its case. he hasn't been able to bring himself to open it, much less play it, in these two years, but... 

maybe it'll help.

the weight is heavy on his legs as he unzips it, and once it's open, he stares at the instrument for a long, long moment.

it looks just like it did that day - smooth finish, faintly shining wood - and his fingers find the frets, his other hand brushing over the strings. 

it's out of tune.

twist-twist-twist-twist - the clock's metronome ticks through the room, filling the space as the guitar slowly comes back in tune. it's been years since he touched one, and he doubts he'll be any good, but it can't hurt to try.

the first chord rings through the room, and he shuts his eyes, letting his fingers move over the frets as his thumb brushes the strings. 

_one, two, three, four_.

with each beat, he thinks of a memory, dredging up old, painful emotions as the song continues. _one -_ a memory with minsoo, _two -_ one of his limited memories with jaewon, _three -_ a memory with daehyun, _four_ \- another moment of aching grief.

he lets it all go.

turns it into music. 

the metronome in his head ticks forwards - _one-two-three-four_ \- even after he puts the guitar down, hands aching from work and disuse and fresh grief. it's an almost familiar feeling - the ache that comes from new practice - but even if it wasn't, he'd welcome it.

it'd be nice to play again, he thinks - be nice to pick up the guitar to accompany his lonely piano. it'd be nice to regain those callouses, be nice to have a hobby that's not just work, be nice to find a new way to breathe. 

maybe he'll learn again.

maybe, just like happiness, he'll learn again. 

**Author's Note:**

> i think i am the sLICKEST TITLER EVER
> 
> i was listening to colors by day6 and exhale by sabrina carpenter while writing this, so listen to that if you want full feels
> 
> (colors was even its original title oops)
> 
> also, this was a challenge from baekhyunsmoles (kill off a major character) so ha i did it
> 
> [twit](https://twitter.com/i_was_human_) | [lit fic discord!](https://discord.gg/CNunB74)


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